


Entr'Acte II

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fantasy, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It wasn't fair that Cas was the only one angsting, right?</p></blockquote>





	Entr'Acte II

The first night, Dean sleeps. He's too tired, his body too worn out to do anything else.

The sheets are warm, the blankets are warm, and he's comfortable for the first time in days. It's such a relief to stretch out in a bed that's the right size and not squeaky or creaky or musty that he doesn't think about anything else.

He knows he _should._

He _should_ be trying to figure out what this Cas guy's angle is.

Yeah, okay, so he made a big show of not _having_ one, but that had to be bullshit. And, yeah, okay, so there hadn't _seemed_ to be an angle to all this, the dinner and the tea and the...The awkwardly comfortable conversation, but that had to be a blind. He wanted something, all right, and Dean would have to figure out what it was--and if he was willing to give it.

Hey, the guy was cute. It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d ever done, that’s for sure.

***

The next night, Dean feels well enough to stay awake and stare at the ceiling for awhile. If he could, he'd get up and pace, but he still basically feels like shit and if he tries getting up, he'll probably cough up a lung.

This is just getting fucking weird. He hadn't expected the guy to push him down on the couch---and then leave him to sleep.

And falling asleep on-- fuck that, _in_ the guy's -- in _Castiel's_ bed hadn't been part of the plan.

Maybe there should have been a plan.

Maybe there's should have been a plan that didn't involve his skin feeling itchy and too tight.

Maybe there should have been a plan that didn’t involve him edging, ass-first and without breathing for fear he’d cough, out of a warm, comfortable bed with a handsome man in it.

He wants--he wants--something.

He's not going to think too much about it, though. What's the point of that?

***

Kissing had _definitely not_ been part of the plan. 

Kissing was--kissing was--hell, kissing was something he hadn't done in a long fucking time.

As he lies straight and flat on his unmade bed, hands linked over his stomach so they can't go wandering anywhere and stares up into the dark, he can't even bring his last kiss to mind.

And Castiel's mouth had been... It felt… Those lips looked dry and rough, but that was misleading.

Dean closes his eyes, summons up the memory. It comes surprisingly easily and his chest tightens with the recollection.

Sweet. That's the word that comes to mind and Dean finds himself pressing his lips together trying to recapture the feeling. 

It doesn't work -- of _course_ it doesn’t work -- and he scrubs the back of one hand over his mouth in disgust. 

So what? One kiss. Whatever. Nothing. Less than nothing.

God, Cas probably wouldn't even remember it in the morning.

***

Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Cas _had_ to go and have a goddamned scum-of-the earth ex. What the _fuck_ was up with that? Cas was the sweetest thing going and he ended up with a douchebag like _Zach_. Did he have no sense of self preservation or what? First Zach, the jack-off of all time; then he just goes and _invites_ Dean into his house like it's no big fucking deal, like this is something people just do all the time: leave work for the day and give house room to the stranded guy at the curb!

Dean makes himself sit still on the edge of the couch, clenching his fingers into the edge of the cushions.

He _wants_ to get up and pace, mutter and swear to himself, maybe find something to punch--but Castiel is only barely asleep.

Something to fuck would be his second choice but that's no more likely.

He should get up and change his clothes. The denim of his jeans is starting to get that uncomfortable stiff, half dried feel and he's surely not doing Castiel's couch any favors.

Instead of doing anything sensible and adult, though, like feeding the cat who keeps coming and pushing hopefully past his ankles, he shoves the heel of his hand roughly against his crotch, wishing the throbbing in his belly away.

Instead, the pressure of his hand spikes pleasure into his gut, making him hiss between his teeth and fall back until he’s slumped on the couch.

There's no way--this isn't--he can't do this. He _can't_ do this.

And he keeps repeating that to himself all the time he's pulling down his zipper and flipping the button open and finding the fly of his boxers.

 _Fucking God--_ He closes his eyes, drops his head back, and squeezes himself hard, pushing the side of his hand back into the soft spot behind his balls. _Fuck...fuck..._

He licks his palm roughly, the tang of his own sweat sharp on his tongue, and that's better, the slide is smoother, but it's not what he wants. He twists his wrist hard, making a ring of finger and thumb at the base of his dick.

 _I want...I want..._ There's no answer to the question. No answer in the realm of probability anyway. Maybe he does have a _vague_ feeling of what he'd like -- a second, third, fourth chance at the sweet narrow mouth, a chance to see what's under the stupidly baggy grey sweater -- but that doesn't mean he's going to get it. Dean's past master in knowing what he wants and isn't going to get and right now Castiel's at the top of the list.

He flattens his free hand over his chest, pressing hard over the nipple, scratching down over his ribs. His dick aches in his hand, a hard, hot curve against his lower belly and he doesn't know what to do. He feels numb and oversensitive at the same time.

He tries to pull up a picture behind his eyes, something to distance him, let him step away and let his body take over. It can do this without him; he'll just be along for the ride.

That asshole in the bar tonight had been pretty, no doubt about it, and Dean focuses on that. Pretty mouth, pretty eyes--he'd look good naked, stretched out, stretched _open_ , skin slick with sweat, eyes blown black, begging--no, maybe too far gone to beg, only able to gasp and whine when Dean slides inside him--

Dean jerks his head aside hard, as if dodging a blow and opens his eyes, adrenaline searing through his veins.

 _Fuck. No._ Dean knew what he'd be like. It wouldn't be _him_ stretched out and pleading. That fucker'd have Dean stretched out--stretched out and bleeding if Dean had read the look in his eyes right. 

But even that thought isn't enough to kill the throb in his cock or the beat of blood in his ears. He wants, he _wants--_ but he's not going to think about that. Wanting what he obviously can't have is just dumb. This is just...just clearing his head. It isn't important, it's not an excuse to fantasize, it's just a quick five finger exercise.

What comes to mind when he closes his eyes again is his first fuck. The guy had tried to be gentle but hand soap made lousy lube and even an extra hundred hadn't made up for shitting blood for a week.

Dean groans and pumps his cock once, twice--there isn't any moisture to spread to make the hot dry feeling go away but he can't stop now. 

He shakes his head against the cushions, trying to banish the memory of a thick voice in his ear--and what comes to mind instead is Castiel, quietly asking if he needs help.

Dean stifles another groan and bites his lip hard. He doesn't want to think about Cas -- the guy's been nothing but kind to him and using him as spank bank material is shitty repayment -- but now he can't stop.

The look in Cas' eyes telling Zach off, the way he’d come to Dean's rescue even though Dean didn't really need rescuing---good fuck, it _had_ to be wrong that _that_ got him wet, made his cock pulse in his hand, made him try to fuck his own fingers, made him clutch at the arm of the couch with his free hand.

And then there was the memory of Castiel’s warm weight against Dean's shoulder, the faint dry clean scent that came off his clothes, the little surprised noise he made when Dean kissed him---and that had to be wrong, too. Dean was no fortune teller but he was pretty sure his future didn't involve making out with educated, well-off, sweet, gorgeous--

Cas had been worried about him, had come to find him, had come out in the rain and the cold and the dark to find _him._

Dean groans aloud, thrusting into his own hand, and comes hard enough to stain his t-shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> It wasn't fair that Cas was the only one angsting, right?


End file.
